Road to Nowhere
by QuietConspiracy
Summary: "The whole thing is quite hopeless, so it's no good worrying about tomorrow. It probably won't come." Welcome to the 205th Hunger Games!
1. Prologue, Part I

Prologue, Part I

President Rumor Snow, age 31

* * *

I remember.

That day, the day I found out who I really was.

Of course, the man who'd told me who I was was a pathetic liar.

So I killed him.

A slice of a knife was all it took to end my dear grandfather's life.

Of course, his assassination only cleared the way for Mother to become President.

It was one step. One step away from power. So close, yet so far.

So I did what any rational teenager would do; rather than a direct murder, I had my Avox "accidentally" slip some poison into Mother's evening scotch.

It was the perfect crime, really; I get what I want without ever getting my hands dirty.

Six months was all it took for me to become Panem's youngest president at the tender young age of nineteen.

My naysayers? After the first round of executions, they hushed up.

Nobody dared to upset me. Not when I could off them in a moment.

The districts behaved, as they should. Every time we took an innocent child to reap? Nine times out of ten, it wasn't an accident. After all, the best way to keep parents in line is to put their children in danger.

The newest Head Gamemaker, Alphonso Paylor, was a slight young thing. He was, if I dared admit it, almost as cruel as I.

His six games had been most definite successes.

The One Hundred and Ninety-Ninth Games were in a pre-Dark Days city. Philadelphia, I believe it was called. Its bell, which hadn't worked in innumerable years, was fixed up to ring every time a new day started. If no one had died in three days, the bell also linked to the least popular tribute's tracker and released its poison, causing them to go insane and kill everyone in a half-mile radius before they finally dropped dead. We got about half the tributes taken out this way on day six. The winner that year was Arron Walden, the fifteen-year-old boy from Eleven. A shock, certainly, but a welcome change from the string of Career girls that'd been unbroken for the last eight years.

The Eighth Quarter Quell added a rather brilliant twist: to symbolize how the Mockingjay revolt all those years ago had brought a false sense of hope and freedom, four tributes would compete from each district- two reaped from the district's nineteen-year-olds, and two second-place finishers from previous Games brought back to life. The arena was also quite clever. After all, who but Alphonso would've thought to convert an old jail into an arena? The winner, a big brute of a boy named Nicodemus from Two, had previously competed in the 140th Games and was apparently two days shy of nineteen at the time of his "death."

The three years following the Quarter Quell were nothing spectacular: a winter wonderland, a pre-Panemian sewer system, and yet another stupid forest. The winners were Prescott Malheur from Seven, Sabine Taylor from Eight, and Gladiola Goldberg from One.

Last year, the Games took place in a pre-Dark Days amusement park. The fully operational roller coaster took out no fewer than seven of the tributes, or almost half of the remaining competitors after the bloodbath. At four days, thirteen hours, forty-one minutes, and two seconds, it was the shortest Games of my presidency. The most shocking thing, however, was that quiet little fourteen-year-old Cascade from Twelve knocked out four competitors before coming in second to Arwen from Four.

Three soft taps on the door.

"Perfect timing as usual, Alphonso. Do come in; I've been expecting you."

The creak of a door, followed by soft footfalls. Slowly, I turn around in my chair.

"How are you tonight, Madam President?" The man of the hour's dark eyes lock on my blue ones.

"Quite well, so thank you for asking. I understand you have an arena proposition?" I tap my crimson nails on my desk expectantly.

"Of course I do; what sort of Head Gamemaker do you think I am?" He pulls out a tablet and starts tapping away on it. "Ah, here we are." He sets the tablet down and taps its screen one more time.

A holograph of the arena pops up. From what I can tell, it's not going to be a very large one. Alphonso points to different spots on the projection as he speaks,

"I was thinking of planting some mutts here, vegetation there, a few more places for shelter on the opposite edge..."

"Alphonso, you have truly outdone yourself." I chuckle. "Fantastic. Really."

He smiles. "If I may leave, Madam? Xylomena Trinket's hosting the party of the week right now, and you know how exclusive those are. First time I've scored an invite in over a year. They want little old me there, can you imagine?"

"Go on, have some fun. You've earned it."

As he makes his way to the door, I think of something. "And Alphonso?"

"Yes, Madam?"

I run a hand through my uniformly dark hair, save for the ashy blonde streak on one side. "Remember what I told you last visit."

He gulps and nods as the door closes behind him.

* * *

**And thus begins the 205th Hunger Games.**

**The summary quote is from J.R.R. Tolkien. I know it's from the Lord of the Rings series, but I forget which book.**

**Before you submit, you might want to read the section on my profile labeled "EvangelineVerse" as it'll help clear up a bit about this AU.**

**The form is on my profile. **

**Rules for submitting:**

**1) NO TRIBUTES WHATSOEVER will be accepted if posted in a review. PM only, people.**

**2) You may submit up to TWO tributes, but they may not be district partners. In addition, if I get enough interest the creators of two tributes will get whichever one adds more to the story picked.**

**3) Submissions open at the time of this posting and close at midnight FFN time on December 20, giving you a little over two weeks to create characters, so take your time. The final list will be up sometime between December 27-29.**

**4) And to answer a couple of FAQs, I am not taking reservations. Or doing a sponsor system. Sorry.**

**I think this covers everything, so...submit!**

**Cheers,**

**Purple**


	2. Prologue, Part II

Prologue, Part II

Xylomena Trinket, age 34

* * *

"Avox! The food trays go over there." The brunette woman heads over this way with the humongous tray. "No, no, not there, _there_."

After five more minutes of such coaching, the food is finally placed exactly where it's supposed to go.

Perfect. Tonight will be perfect. The finest champagne from One, the tiniest music confetti chips from Three, the freshest crab from Four in the crab-stuffed rice cakes.

My new stilettos from Eight are killing my feet, though. but sometimes, pain is the price one must pay to stay on the edge of haute couture.

Of course, this party's to celebrate the opening of a twelfth branch of Trinkette's, the finest nightclub in the Capitol.

I suppose bartending's only natural, considering great-great-grandfather Haymitch's love of the bottle. Lucky thing he didn't blow it all on alcohol before he died; the money he had left has sat in the Trinket vault for generations, simply because he left all of it to his only son.

And now, it funds my extravegent parties. Two hundred of the Capitol's most elite are expected to make an appearance tonight, including Head Gamemaker Paylor.

The topiary artists are putting the finishing touches on the last couple of bushes. Twenty-four ice sculptures have been set up around the dance floor, and the band is putting the final touches on its setup.

"Miss Trinket!" My assistant calls out.

"What?"

"The guests are lining up ever so anxiously out front. Shall we let them in?"

This isn't what I wanted; I need a bit to breathe before the party starts. But as great-great-grandmother Effie stressed propriety so much, I'll cater to my guests' whims as any good hostess should.

"Let the party begin, I suppose."

The gates open, and the guests pour in.

After about an hour, Paylor is the only guest who's still a no-show, and I consider whether or not a third champagne flute of sparkling cider would be worth it.

At the drinks table, I'm refilling my glass when somebody taps me on the shoulder.

"Looking for somebody, love?"

I whirl around. "Alphonso! Don't scare me like that."

I'm rewarded with a hint of overly whitened teeth as he laughs. "But of course you weren't."

I smile. "Shall we dance?"

"If you want."

I set down my drink, take his hand, and lead him to the dance floor.

The fourteen-piece band starts a new slow song, and Alphonso draws me in closer as he whispers in my ear.

"Sorry I was late, darling, but I showed the game plans to President Snow tonight."

I raise my eyebrows so high they almost disappear under my acid-green wig. "Really now? What'd she say?"

He sighs. "She loved them, of course, but..."

"But what?"

"I can't tell you. Not here."

"Why not?"

He gestures to the dancing couples around us, so as soon as the song ends I lead him to the most secluded corner of my courtyard.

"Can you tell me now, love?"

"You know how I told you about that...deal she made with me?"

I gasp. "She didn't threaten you with it, did she?" He nods his head. "Dammit, I knew this would happen. I just knew it."

"Xy, love-"

"Don't you 'Xy, love,' me, Alphonso."

"But you don't understand-"

"Do I? Don't forget who our ancestors are, and the fact I'm five years your senior. So don't you dare tell me what I do and do not understand."

"You're impossible sometimes, you know that?"

"Damn straight. Now if you'll excuse me, I must get get back to hostessing."

"Xy-"

I turn on my heel and stride back to the drink table.

"Lovers' quarrel?" my friend Lyra asks as she falls into place next to me.

"Lyra, how many times must I tell you, there is nothing romantic whatsoever going on between me and Alphonso!"

"You're blushing, which does not suit your complexion at all, especially with that wig of yours."

"Shut up and get me a triple-strength raspberry virgin martini, shaken NOT stirred, olive-free."

"I'm not your Avox, get it yourself."

"Fine then. If that's how you want to be."

"Xy, what's crawled up your behind lately?"

"Nothing." My stomach churns and I feel bile rising in the back of my throat.

"Xy-"

"NOTHING IS WRONG, DAMNIT!"

"Xy, calm down-"

I take a deep breath. "Lyra, can we discuss this later?"

She rolls her eyes and huffs. "Whatever. You still want that martini?"

"Have I ever been one to turn down a drink?"

Lyra laughs. "So raspberry vodka-"

"Virgin, actually." My stomach does a backflip.

"What's with the no alcohol, Xy? You sure you're all right?"

"Lyra, I am fine."

"Bullshit. Inside, now." Imagine that, my best friend bossing me around at my own party.

Lyra drags me by my arm into a deserted walk-in closet just off the courtyard entrance.

"Xy, I'm going to ask you a couple of questions that I need you to answer, okay?"

"Lyra, I've told you-"

She puts her finger to my lips. "Just do it, please. For me?"

I huff indignantly. "Fine."

"Have you been any more nauseous than usual lately?"

My stomach does a somersault as I bite my lip. "Well, yes, but-"

"Making more trips to the ladies' room?"

"Not really, no, but-"

"Are you more tired than usual?"

"Only because of promoting Trinkette's, but-"

"Any smells make you want to gag?"

I think back to the sushi bar I went to last weekend, where I spent more time losing my lunch than eating it. "Don't get me started, Lyra."

"Now don't take this the wrong way, but you've been looking a little more...bloated, shall we say, than usual."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Moodier, too...Xy, I know you're not big on talking about this sort of thing, but have you been, er, _intimate_ with a man lately?"

Suddenly, all these questions start making sense, and I realize what she's been hinting at all along.

Oh no. Not now. Shit, shit, shit, no. Not when everything's finally the way I've dreamed of it being since I was a girl.

"Oh, Panem, Lyra, how could I have been so stupid?" I bury my face in my hands.

"Sorry to be the one to break it to you, Xy, but-"

"I know what I am, Lyra." I snap as I put a hand protectively over my abdomen.

She helps me up. "Let's get back; if the man of the hour's here tonight, you'll need to tell him." She opens the door ad we walk out. She wanders off, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I know that I've got to tell him at some point, but the question is how.

After all, one wrong move and the President will have his head.

And at this point, seven months out with an approved arena, it'd be rather difficult to find a willing replacement Head Gamemaker.

* * *

**And that's a wrap!**

**So if you didn't quite catch what was going on with Xylomena, our ever-so-lovely Head Gamemaker got her pregnant. Complicates things a bit, now doesn't it?  
**

**Just a reminder that tribute submissions are open until 11:59 P.M. on the 20th, with the list tentatively going up on the 27th. Form's on my profile if you're interested. Other details posted last chapter.**

**Updates may be slow-going as the story goes on, but the next chapter (reapings) should be up by the 3rd of January as long as all spots are filled.**

**Cheers,**

**Purple**


	3. AN

**Just an update on tribute submission.**

**It was supposed to close tonight at 11:59 PM FFN time, but I've decided to extend this until 11:59 PM FFN time on Christmas (the 25th) as I'm missing several of the tributes.**

**This will be the only extension given, so feel free to send in your tributes. The guidelines are in the author's note at the end of the first chapter, and the form is on my profile along with a count of how many tributes I have and what sort of things NOT to put in your form so your hopes of being accepted go up.**

**Also, don't review on this chapter yet as it will be replaced with reapings once I finish them.**

**Cheers,**

**Purple**


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